Reading as addiction, continued

it's been years since the beginning of this post.... and I don't remember the intended direction - if, indeed, there was one.  It was in my grade 3 year, i think, that my father bought his first home (he was a divorced single parent at the time). Just 4 doors down from this modest version of the dream home, as it turned out, lived my nemesis. Imagine living just a couple hundred feet down the street from someone who terrified (and terrorized) you. Fortunately, the evil woman kept pretty much to herself. She was huge, morbidly obese, and, aside from driving the 2 blocks to work at the school every day, didn't go out much.  Her husband was a sweet, gentle man who kept a beautiful yard and gardens at their home, and worked as the janitor in the school she had charge over.  I began to wonder in my grade 6 year if the mondays when we had to move the desks in our classroom farther apart to accommodate her girth down the aisles came after some domestic difficulty between the two of them, and if she was as nasty to hm as she was to me. She was always in a bad temper when she walked into the room to find that she couldn't pass between the rows of desks.  It seemed to me a nifty way for him to have the last word, and it brought me comfort.